


Having Seen Barbados

by Verasteine



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Caring Illya, Getting Together, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: Napoleon crosses the street to a payphone, digging in his pockets for change, feeding it in with hands that aren't as steady as he'd like them to be. His finger hovers over the dial. Gaby would come, but then she would fuss and ask questions. Illya will probably look at him in disgust, but he can take Illya's derision better than Gaby's concern.(Additional information/content warnings available in end notes.)





	Having Seen Barbados

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to write this kind of fic in every fandom I drop into. I may get a reputation. Thanks muchly to hairyintent for the reading and encouragement, and eumelia and lbcubbison for the betas. This fic is better because of all of you. 
> 
> Song lyrics at the top are by Tori Amos, from "Me and a Gun".

\--

_You can laugh, it's kind of funny_  
_The things you think at times like these_  
_Like I haven't seen Barbados_  
_So I must get out of this_

\--

It happens in a New York gentlemen's club that Napoleon relies on for discretion when the urge strikes, something he keeps carefully separate from his professional life; no need to give Sanders any more reason to sneer at him than Sanders already feels he has. He idles through the corridors, ignoring those already engaged in various acts with one another, sizing up those who aren't and who are clearly not there to observe. A man passes, eyes raking over Napoleon, and he smiles mildly in reply, taking in a firm body with tan skin and dark hair. He halts, waiting for the other to catch up, and when he does, Napoleon simply moves into a darker corner, away from prying eyes, and smiles again. 

The dark haired stranger smiles back, moving in closer, putting a hand on Napoleon's hip, and everything is proceeding exactly how Napoleon hoped it would. A little quick stress relief, an anonymous encounter where no one knows his name or expects to see him again. It's what he was itching for and it's coming to pass, and when he thinks about it later, he blames that moment of relief for the momentary lapse in his guard. 

The blow to his head takes him by surprise, quick, well executed, hitting him at the base of his skull and instantly making him fight for consciousness. He sees stars and his knees give way, the wall at his back keeping him from crumpling completely into a heap. It is that and his training that keep him from passing out, making him struggle against the hand that grabs his chin and tries to force his mouth open. 

He knows where this is going, he knows why; he's not unfamiliar with power play and the reasons why men do these things to others. He pulls his head away, causing another shower of sparks to cover his vision, his stomach churning uncomfortably as he swallows and blinks to clear it. 

When he comes back to himself the hand is back on his chin, fingers in his mouth prying his jaw apart. He gags, the fingers hooking behind his teeth to try and pull him forward onto a cock that is now level with his mouth. He's running out of time and options and he is definitely not letting this happen, so he gathers what is left of his wits about him and bites down as hard as he can, ignoring the gagging and the twisting of his stomach as he pushes his body up and forward. 

His assailant makes a pained noise when he makes contact, but Napoleon's move knocks him off balance, making him stagger and try to pull his dominant hand out of Napoleon's mouth. He succeeds as Napoleon pushes past him, stumbling to his feet and moving back into the corridor. A hand lands on his shoulder and pulls, spinning him around, and the world spins with him as Napoleon tries to sidestep it, failing to fully right himself, hand colliding painfully with a hot metal pipe before crashing into the wall. He throws a punch but it fails to connect fully, though it puts space between himself and the assailant, enough space that Napoleon can escape into the brighter areas of the club, find safety in numbers.

The assailant doesn't follow as Napoleon knew he wouldn't; this is a practiced routine and the only way you can keep this up is if no one remembers your face. He makes his way back to the changing room, bypassing the showers, getting dressed quickly while fighting down the waves of nausea. His head throbs, his hand is sore, and there are more bruises elsewhere that will need attending to eventually. The buttons of his shirt slip through his fingers as he dresses, the warmth of the room doing nothing for his shivers. 

He leaves as quickly as his body allows, imprudently putting distance between himself and what happened, driven by an urge that has nothing to do with necessity. He knows it, but he can't stop, walks down the road, checking if he's being followed out of habit more than skill. He's put two blocks between himself and the club before he has to duck into an alleyway to throw up, his stomach rebelling against the strain he's putting his body through. He's not going to make it home at this rate and this is not a part of New York he can afford to be found in by authorities without having to explain more to Waverly or Sanders than he ever wanted to. 

When the nausea subsides enough for Napoleon to focus, he crosses the street to a payphone, digging in his pockets for change, feeding it in with hands that aren't as steady as he'd like them to be. Maybe he can blame the concussion. His finger hovers over the dial. Gaby would come, but then she would fuss and ask questions, and he's not sure he can cope with those. Illya... Illya will probably look at him in disgust, but he can take Illya's derision better than Gaby's concern. His fingers dial the number before he can reconsider. 

"Hello?"

In spite of the hour, Illya sounds awake. "It's me."

"Cowboy. What's wrong?"

Leave it to Illya to skip straight to the point. "I...I kind of need a hand."

"You have problem? Where are you?"

He squints to see the street address and realises too late that that was a mistake. Spots appear in front of his eyes and he begins to waver, starting at the sound of footsteps across the road. It takes embarrassingly long for his mind to translate the sound of heels clicking on the pavement to it clearly being a female passerby, and he breathes out slowly as he collects himself. 

"Cowboy, _answer me_." 

Illya has been speaking and Napoleon hasn't been listening, holding himself upright by leaning into the payphone. "I'm here. I need you to pick me up." He gives the street address, knowing there's no way back from this. 

Illya repeats it before saying, "It is code red?"

"No, don't think anyone is still after me now. I just need a ride."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Illya cuts the connection before Napoleon can say anything else. He's reliable, always, and Napoleon never thought he'd tolerate having partners but after six months on this team, he can honestly say it's not so bad. 

Tonight he may break that bond entirely. Well, his name is Solo for a reason. No harm done if the Red Peril decides to ask for a transfer tomorrow. Napoleon may have to contend with Sanders' disgust if Illya decides to share why, but it's not like the CIA can do much worse to him than they already have, and Napoleon is too valuable to throw back to the general population of some prison in middle America. Perhaps Waverly won't even tell Sanders. It's the English vice, after all.

He wraps his coat more tightly around himself and retreats from the steadiness of the phone booth, moving into a side street to be able to observe more guardedly. He is sure no one will come after him, he isn't worth this much to a casual assailant and if he had been, the man would have been here already. His body thinks otherwise, starting at car engines and footfalls. He knows what this is and doesn't want to name it, keeping his focus on staying on his feet, on waiting, on keeping himself from being exposed. 

Illya's car is, as anything about Illya except for Illya himself, nondescript and unremarkable, and the car slows when he approaches the intersection, allowing Napoleon to come out from the shadows into the streetlight. The car comes to a stop and the door opens, and Napoleon folds himself into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Illya drives on without another word while Napoleon takes a few deep breaths against the small bout of nausea moving has induced. 

Illya speaks when he stops at a traffic light three blocks down. "What happened?"

"Got into a spot of trouble. Nothing serious." He looks over to the driver's side as he speaks, meeting Illya's frown. 

"Are you okay?"

Napoleon considers his answer, because it would save him from the mess of Illya knowing if he would let Illya drive him home and pretend in the morning that this never happened. His body balks at the thought of the three flights of stairs to his apartment, and his mind balks at the thought of the cold night on his own stretching ahead, and neither are a good reason to give in; Napoleon has been through worse. "I..." He shivers. "I'm fine."

"You are not fine," Illya states, voice laced with anger because he caught Napoleon in a lie. "If you were fine, you would have called taxi."

He should have called a taxi anyway, or Gaby, or just walked home and taken the risk of passing out in the street. Tired, he closes his eyes and watches the spots dance in front of his eyelids. 

"Wake up." Illya shakes his shoulder and Napoleon groans, his head aching. 

"Don't do that," he snaps, bracing himself on the dashboard and then hissing when his hand comes into contact with the wood. He yanks it back, remembering the burn, the metal pipes, the urgency to get away. 

"You're hurt." Illya looks away from the road to narrow his eyes at Napoleon, and he doesn't like the scrutiny and is glad when Illya focuses back on the traffic. 

"I got into some trouble, nothing for you to worry about, Peril."

"Not true," Illya replies stubbornly, and it's only then that Napoleon becomes aware enough to realise where they are going. 

"Damn it, take me home."

Illya takes the exit for what is definitely the road to his own residence and not Napoleon's walk up, and smiles. "No."

Napoleon would argue with him, but he's too weary, so he concedes and lets Illya determine where they're going. It takes less than ten minutes before they arrive at Illya's place, a spartan flat in a nondescript building with very little going for it except that it's practical, which seems to be Illya's only requirement for ninety percent of life's demands. He gets out of the car slowly, following Illya into the building. 

The bright lights of the entryway make him wince, and he catches Illya's concerned glance, though neither of them speaks while still in public. Only when they're inside Illya's apartment with the door shut, Illya says again, "What happened?"

"I took a bash to the head," Napoleon hedges.

"And your hand?"

Damn Illya and his thoroughness. "Burned it on a heating pipe."

"Sit," Illya orders, pointing him to the couch, and Napoleon goes because standing seems like a bad idea anyway. 

Illya turns on a lamp, takes off his coat, and leaves the room. Napoleon follows suit more slowly, stripping off the coat he still has tightly buttoned around himself, and he finds his hands are steadier on the buttons now. Good. 

Illya comes back in with a first aid kit, and Napoleon looks up at him. "You're not going to let this go if I ask you to, are you?"

Illya stops, holding the kit in his hands. "Why would you ask?"

Napoleon sighs. "Trust me, you don't want to know what happened."

"You got into mess with old friends." Illya shrugs. "I know you did not give up the stealing."

He should let Illya keep thinking that, accept that conclusion as fact. He takes too long to answer, and when he finally nods and meets Illya's eyes, he can tell Illya knows it's not what happened. Illya moves, then, sitting down next to him. "Where did you get hit?"

"Back of the head." He moves his hand up to touch, feeling the beginnings of a good sized contusion. Illya takes his hand and pulls it away, replacing it with his own fingers, carefully prodding and poking until Napoleon winces and snaps, "Do you mind?"

"Is not fracture," Illya replies blithely. "Sore, yes?"

"Yes." Napoleon sighs. "I nearly passed out cold."

"Good thing you didn't." Napoleon agrees with Illya's professional judgement. If he had, he wouldn't have got away, he wouldn't have been able to fight back, he would have come to and--

His stomach twists and he shudders violently, his hands trembling again like the shakes never left. This close, Illya can see it, can feel it, and Napoleon can no longer hide it. 

"Cowboy..."

"For the sake of our working relationship, don't ask," Napoleon implores. "Just don't."

"Our _working_ relationship? This is not work, it is not your stealing, so what is it?"

Illya is concerned. That is an entirely different problem than his curiosity, and Napoleon hits those crossroads knowing there is no way back. "It was private, and he had other plans than I did," he snaps, letting anger masquerade as courage to get the words out. "So I'll go now before you decide if you want to add to my rather unpleasant evening."

He stands up too quickly, dizziness making him clumsy, knocking the first aid kit off the couch. The contents clatter everywhere, the noise making Napoleon wince. He needs to make it to the door and figure out the next step from there. He's been through worse, he's coped with worse, he can do this if he just takes it in small increments. 

He gets to the living room door when Illya speaks. "You do not have to go."

Napoleon freezes. Hope will make him careless. He called Illya not because he didn't want to deal with Gaby's concern, but because he selfishly wanted, wished for Illya's. He turns slowly, holding on to the doorknob for support. 

Illya still stands by the sofa, surrounded by the contents of the kit. He seems too big for the room, shifting a little in place. "You don't have to go. You should not go. You're hurt."

"So you'll just wait till morning to kick me out?"

Illya's mouth twitches. "You didn't shock me as much as you think you did. It does not matter to me."

Napoleon's hand clenches around the doorknob, the burn on his palm throbbing. "You knew?"

"No." Illya shakes his head, finally breaking the standoff by gathering the supplies Napoleon spilled and putting them back in the box. He looks up over the back of the couch when Napoleon still hasn't moved and adds, "Sit down, Cowboy."

Napoleon forces himself to move, wary of what is being offered, but he's too exhausted to brace himself and turn from it. Illya puts the kit on the table as he sits down and takes Napoleon's hand to look at the burn. It's leaking clear fluid now and the disinfectant Illya uses stings.

"Is this all?" Illya says as he applies a dressing, breaking the silence between them. 

Napoleon tears his mind from the cover story he was concocting about a cooking mishap, and looks at Illya's face. "What?"

"Other injuries?" Illya asks. 

Napoleon tries to remember. "Scrapes and bruises, I guess."

"Take your shirt off."

Illya isn't even looking at him when he gives the order, but Napoleon's heart jumps into his throat and he freezes, unable to control the reaction even though it is ridiculous. When he can breathe again, Illya is looking at him with a frown on his face. Napoleon starts to unbutton his shirt, willing his fingers to stillness, but the second button starts slipping through his fingers. 

After a moment of watching him struggle, Illya's hands come over his. "Okay, Cowboy. Let me." 

Napoleon drops his hands by his sides and lets Illya unbutton his shirt, looking at the bare wall over Illya's shoulder, keeping his eyes on the same spot as Illya pulls the shirt out of his pants and takes it off before reaching down and stripping off Napoleon's undershirt as well. He lifts his arms to help, feeling the cotton scrape over what is either a bruise or a burn on his back. 

Illya's hands, warm on his cold skin, coax him into turning and Napoleon has given up the fight, turns his back to Illya's gaze as directed. Illya reaches for the bottle of disinfectant and the cotton. The alcohol stings again and Napoleon bears it with what is left of his stoicism. 

Illya works in silence, methodical and precise, making Napoleon aware of every cut and bruise mottling his back, aware of everything Illya is seeing. When Illya is done, he rests his hand on Napoleon's hip. The silence stretches impossibly long until Illya says, "Is that all?"

The heaviness of Illya's voice leaves no doubt of what he is asking and Napoleon finds a strange sense of relief in replying. "Yeah, that's all."

He hears the quiet rush of Illya's breath at his reply. "I'll get you shirt."

Illya gets up before Napoleon can say it's not necessary, but then he catches sight of his own blood stained undershirt, and realises he has more than bruises on his back. Illya comes back with a clean t-shirt as Napoleon is reassembling the medical kit, and they exchange the items between them. "Thanks," Napoleon says as he pulls it on.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?" Illya offers. 

Napoleon laughs, sounding wrong to his own ears and from the expression on Illya's face, wrong to his, too. "I won't be doing much sleeping."

Illya nods. "So I will... stay awake and teach you chess."

"No offence, Peril, but my head is pounding and I'm not good company. Go to bed. Thanks for your help. I'll read a book to pass the time."

Illya gets up, his hand landing briefly on Napoleon's shoulder as he passes, and he leaves the room, returning with a glass of water, a tube of aspirin, and a pillow. A blanket appears shortly afterwards. 

"You're really good at playing nursemaid, Peril, where have you been hiding these skills?"

Illya twitches with something akin to annoyance. "Only available on special occasions."

Napoleon laughs a little, shaking out two tablets and downing them with a gulp of water. His mouth feels bruised and he remembers why, the smile sliding off his face again. "Thanks," he says, looking at Illya, who nods and finally retreats from the room, leaving Napoleon alone with his thoughts. 

\--

He tries reading by the low light of the lamp Illya left on, but the words blur together. His head still pounds, though the painkillers have taken the edge off, and Napoleon studiously doesn't think of the bedroom down the hall, Illya there like a sleeping tiger Napoleon shouldn't wake. 

He doesn't know when he falls asleep, just knows the moment he wakes, the light still on while sunlight is starting to peek from behind the curtains. It doesn't feel like morning, it feels like he barely got to sleep, and when he lifts his head, the ache, muted, returns to remind him of why he is here. 

He's woken up in more embarrassing places and definitely in more embarrassing positions, but he doesn't relish whatever music he has to face this morning all the same. 

He sits up slowly, cataloguing muscles and bruises that have stiffened and intensified through the night, feeling the headache that he is not going to shake for a few days, but there is no dizziness and only a hint of nausea. He is functional, able to escape this situation if he is fast enough. 

When he listens, he hears noises and movement. Sizzling, clanging, footsteps... Illya is cooking breakfast and Napoleon won't be able to escape from an Illya who is no longer sleeping. He considers lying back down and pretending to sleep, but it's the coward's way out and it's best to get this over with. He fortifies himself with another aspirin, carefully folding the blanket and putting it on the end of the couch along with the pillow before grabbing his shirt and buttoning it up. 

His fingers are stiff under the bandage, bruised and a little swollen, and he's definitely going to have to come up with a cover story for Gaby and Waverly. That requires convincing Illya of the need for silence. 

Having put it off in every possible way, he stands up, slowly walking towards the living room door and making his way down the hall to the kitchen. Illya is standing by the stove, already looking at the doorway and smiling at him. "Good morning, Cowboy."

Napoleon thinks that this is way too much cheer for an ordinary Saturday morning and for the circumstances of this one, definitely too much. "Please tell me you made coffee."

Illya points towards a coffee maker dripping away steadily, and Napoleon finds a mug in the open cabinet above it and liberates the carafe, pouring himself a mug before replacing it to collect the rest of the coffee still dripping through. He catches the small twitch on Illya's face that suggests the resulting mess annoys him, but Illya doesn't say anything. Napoleon carefully sips the coffee, letting it warm him and give him strength that feels sorely lacking. 

Illya seems focused again on the eggs he's cooking, stirring methodically. Napoleon is the one to break the standoff. "So, I was rather hoping we could forget last night."

Illya glances at him, spatula frozen above the pan. "I can forget, if you wish."

He doesn't like owing Illya a favour, doesn't like giving him the ability to lord something over Napoleon, or worse, give him the opportunity of blackmail. He doesn't kid himself that Illya might not take this straight to the KGB as soon as Napoleon leaves, and what consequences that might have. "And in return?"

Illya's eyes go wide and that shock is not feigned. "I don't need money."

Always the socialist. "Not everything is about money," Napoleon replies evenly. 

Illya's face settles into the bland expressionless mask he uses to hide his more controllable emotions. "I don't need favour. I helped because you asked."

"Yes, of course." Napoleon tries to think on his feet, but between the concussion and the events of the night before, he's hard pressed to come up with something more. They are both silent again, the sizzling of the eggs and the spatula clanging against the pan the only noises breaking the tension between them. Napoleon sips his coffee and finally says, "The thing is..."

Illya glances at him again. "Yes?"

"A lot of people would be very interested in some of the things you learned last night."

Illya meets his eyes and holds his gaze. "I know."

"Do you intend on telling them?"

Illya shakes his head. "No."

Why not? Napoleon wants to ask, but he doesn't. Trusting Illya seems like taking a step over the edge into a certain ravine, and Illya being the only one telling him the yawning chasm is not there. He's trusted Illya before, with his life, with Gaby's, with mission objectives and more. But this isn't a job. He should have called Gaby last night. He is paying for that momentary lapse of judgement now. 

"Eggs?" Illya offers, and somehow Napoleon missed him pulling out two plates and offering one to Napoleon. 

Under the nausea, hunger is beginning to stir. He takes the plate and nods. "Thanks."

\--

They eat on what is a tiny strip of balcony that barely deserves the name, but Illya has crammed a small table and two chairs onto it and were Napoleon less unsettled, he'd admire how nice it is. A cool breeze keeps away the heat of the summer sun and Napoleon eats one helping of eggs to Illya's four, but it settles the nausea and makes him feel a little more human. 

Illya has his coffee after breakfast, refilling both their mugs and fastidiously cleaning the bottom of the carafe while he's at it. Napoleon watches him and says nothing. When he's done, Illya opens a cigarette case, shaking one out and offering another to Napoleon. He takes it, letting Illya light it for him and watching him light his own. It is the Russian brand Illya prefers, the smell familiar and oddly comforting, reminding Napoleon he should leave before he gets too comfortable here. 

Illya looks at him after the first two drags and says, "How often do you do it?"

Napoleon takes another drag and ignores the way the cigarette feels against the bruises in his mouth and how he got them. "I beg your pardon?"

"Last night was not the first time."

"I think," Napoleon says slowly, "I'm not going to share that information with you."

"You trusted me last night," Illya says, carefully level.

"I had less choice last night," Napoleon shoots back. 

"You had choice last night. You chose me."

"Are you flattered, Peril?"

Illya takes a sip from his coffee. "Should I be?"

The comment takes Napoleon by surprise and he's lost for a comeback. He doesn't have an exit strategy and whatever this is, a subtle attempt at interrogation or something else entirely, it's starting to feel like he's in over his head. "If it helps your ego..."

Illya smiles, like Napoleon has conceded something Illya was long suspecting. "My ego is fine, thank you. Does not need your help."

"Well, then. If we're all done here..." He lets it hang between them, giving Illya a last chance to make a move. If he is intending blackmail, Napoleon will give him one last chance at a deal.

Illya's eyes meet his, measuring the balance between them, and then Illya takes a slow breath. "Last night." He holds Napoleon's gaze and Napoleon waits, the beads of silence stringing out slowly. "Last night, you did not shock me because--"

Napoleon keeps still, sensing the cusp, feeling out the edge of where this is going with a hope that he should crush. It's a dangerous emotion. 

Illya takes another drag from his cigarette. "Because I, too, have been with men." He blows out the smoke slowly.

The sword of Damocles falls away, and Napoleon breathes out. Only then does the truth of it land. "You?" It startles a laugh out of him. "You've kept that hidden nicely."

The weight of the revelation means Illya is slow to smile back, but he does. "As well as you."

"You had no idea?"

"Not until last night."

"Well." He stretches his legs as much as is possible on the small balcony, nearly brushing against Illya's feet. The space suddenly feels even smaller and Napoleon takes Illya in. He told Napoleon for a reason and Napoleon went where he did last night for reasons of his own. The memories slip back in and he feels the smile slide off his face unbidden. He reaches for the coffee mug to cover it, taking a sip. He manages not to pull his legs back, but it's a close thing. 

"So you do not have to fear what I will say."

Napoleon nods. He holds Illya's gaze. "Thank you," he says genuinely. 

"You're welcome." Illya stands, gathering the plates and the mugs, and Napoleon stays in his seat, watching him go, listening to the sound of water running in the kitchen and the faint hum of traffic starting up on the other side of the building. 

He should go. Things have been settled between them and he can take the weekend to come up with a cover story knowing that Illya won't betray him. He stubs out his cigarette and heads back into the living room to retrieve his coat. Illya appears in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands still damp from suds. "You're going?"

Napoleon shakes the feeling that there is something unfinished between them, finds his strength. He straightens and smiles. "I appreciate the bonding experience, Peril, but it's time for me to be off."

Illya presses his lips together and then nods, smiling back. "Of course."

Napoleon walks towards him, watching Illya step aside, watching the way Illya's shirt stretches over his chest. The weight of everything he knows and everything he can't forget settles heavily on his shoulders, and he swallows. He needs to go.

He's three steps from the door when Illya says, "Napoleon."

It slams into him with physical force, pulling him up short. He can't turn around because he knows what he'll see and he won't have the strength to turn from it again. 

"Don't go."

Napoleon stays suspended in motion, neither going forward nor backward, and it's Illya who moves, big strides across the hall, and hands land on his hips. When Napoleon doesn't pull away, Illya steps closer, fitting himself against Napoleon's back. "This is a bad idea," Napoleon says. 

"Yes," Illya agrees. He's so close Napoleon can feel his breath on his skin. 

They stand there, the silence ticking along as the warmth of Illya's body seeps through Napoleon's shirt. There are so many reasons why this is a bad idea, too few why it isn't, but inexorably Napoleon lets himself lean into Illya, and Illya's arms come around his waist. 

He shudders at it, something loosening in his chest that has been held tight since the night before. He feels Illya's mouth against his temple, pressing a soft kiss there like Napoleon is made of glass. "I've got you."

God, but he does. Napoleon doesn't want to move, not yet, not now. Illya holds on with that quiet patience that always takes Napoleon by surprise. It is full minutes before he has to move, slowly shifting until Illya lets go. 

"I would ask you to come to bed with me," Illya says slowly, and Napoleon finally turns to face him. Illya's eyes are soft. "But I'm not sure you want to, right now."

He should be offended, but it takes his breath away to be confronted with that gentleness. "Ordinarily I would say yes," Napoleon hedges.

Illya moves closer, slowly, telegraphing every move, but Napoleon doesn't move away. He meets Illya on the last step, fitting their mouths together for a long overdue kiss. 

It's good until Illya cups his cheek and takes charge; Napoleon jerks his head back, hand coming up to his mouth automatically. Illya steps back, holding up an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, I--"

"No, it's..." Napoleon rubs at the bruises, invisible from the outside but very present on the inside. It feels foolish and sordid all of a sudden, and he never in his life wanted to be cast into this role. "Like I said, this is a bad idea."

He can see the effect of his words in Illya's eyes, the shock of cold water Napoleon poured on him, the depth of feeling Illya so valiantly tries to hide from the world. Illya glances at the door. "If you want to go..."

The door is right there, and all Napoleon has to do is reach out and go through it. He thinks he would have made more of an effort to keep himself if their roles were reversed, would have tried harder to talk Illya into bed. Then he looks at Illya and the way he's vibrating with the effort not to do all of those things; not to stop Napoleon, not to sweet talk him, not to do anything that might sway him from his effort to escape. "I don't know what I want," Napoleon admits honestly. 

Illya holds out a hand. Napoleon hesitates. He's been trying to walk out of this flat since last night, and he still hasn't left. There comes a point where a man has to admit to himself that he isn't trying hard enough. He puts his hand in Illya's. 

Illya leads him to the bedroom and Napoleon swallows. He risks a glance around the room, smiling when he notices Illya hasn't made the bed. Illya's fingers come up to touch his lips, and Napoleon pauses. Illya's eyes harden and his fingers twitch against Napoleon's skin. He waits, trusting Illya to ride out his temper. "I do not want to ask," Illya says, voice low, "what happened, but..."

Napoleon understands, even when he doesn't want to. "Guessing is worse."

Illya nods. "You said last night..."

He doesn't want to revisit this standing in Illya's bedroom. "Nothing happened. He tried and I wasn't having it."

Illya's eyes narrow. "Your mouth..."

Napoleon turns his face away, flushing. "It didn't happen. Not what you're thinking."

He feels more than sees Illya move closer, anger flaring in his chest that Illya made him talk. He turns his gaze on Illya and it halts Illya in his tracks. "I'm sorry."

Napoleon wants to ask him if he is, wants to goad him into a fight because Illya is here and a target to take his anger out on, and he looks at Illya and knows how bad an idea it is. This is the one time Illya won't fight back, would let Napoleon destroy everything without question. "You had to know," he concedes, and meticulously doesn't think about what he'd do if the situation were reversed. 

Illya's hand comes up to his arm, and Napoleon steps forward into Illya's waiting embrace, breathing out against Illya's shoulder. Illya's hand strokes his back and up into his hair, and Napoleon becomes aware of how close they are, Illya's long body against his own. "Are we going to go somewhere with this?" he finally asks. 

Illya kisses him behind his ear, and Napoleon feels a sliver of lust deep in his stomach. "Let me take you to bed," Illya says softly. 

Napoleon can feel his skin tingle at those words. "Alright," he says, his voice a little rough.

Illya pulls back enough to put his hands on Napoleon's shirt buttons, kissing his temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye. He avoids Napoleon's mouth as he unbuttons the shirt, for which Napoleon is grateful. He lets Illya undress him down to his pants before starting some exploration of his own. 

Illya's chest is all hard muscle under his hands, shifting as Illya's fingers keep sliding over Napoleon's skin, and it is distracting but not enough to keep Napoleon from finding out what's underneath those shirts. He gets Illya's shirt unbuttoned, and then finds himself restrained in taking it off by Illya's insistence on touching him. He finally resorts to cupping the front of Illya's pants. 

Illya's moan is a sound of delight, and he drops his hands, allowing Napoleon to get the upper hand and strip off his shirt and undershirt. He drops his hands to Illya's belt; no need to let Illya catch up, plenty of time later to leisurely discover what he's exposed. Illya laughs, a surprised stutter of sound that makes Napoleon look up to see the unfettered happiness on Illya's face and then he is utterly distracted. 

Kissing Illya would be a bad idea but god, he wants to, wants to find out all the things that'll make Illya look and sound like that and be the cause of them every time. He settles for cupping Illya's cheek and Illya looks at him, the silent promise Napoleon is trying to make stretching between them. 

Illya leans in, kissing him, but so gently Napoleon can't complain, and before it can get out of hand he gets both his hands back on Illya's belt, undoing the buckle and then the button and zip. The sound Illya makes, the way he's straining already against the fabric of his shorts, makes Napoleon _want_ , brilliant and sharp. 

Illya strips off his shorts, waking Napoleon from his distraction, and then it's Illya's hands on him, unzipping and unbuckling, and Napoleon pushes greedily into those long fingers, leaning into Illya and letting him catch him. Illya laughs again. "If I had known it would be like this..."

"You would have done something sooner?" Napoleon finishes for him.

"I... yes..." Illya lets Napoleon step out of his trousers and pulls him to the bed, both of them settling onto the mattress with their eyes still on each other. 

They stretch out, facing each other, Illya already naked and Napoleon nearly so. Napoleon hesitates for a brief moment and then steps over the edge, trusting Illya to tell him where the ravine is. "Before we get further, you should know some things... are not on the table today."

Illya nods, easy smile playing around his lips. "I know. We'll just get to know each other."

For a second or two, it feels so dangerous to be here it takes Napoleon's breath away. He could fall into this, fall hard and fall fast and crash at the bottom. But Illya is here, his hand sliding over Napoleon's hip, beautiful and irresistible. It's time to leisurely discover and worry about the consequences later. Napoleon puts his hand on Illya's shoulder and pushes until Illya settles onto his back, letting Napoleon skim his hand over his chest, uncovering the thin line of a scar with his thumb. A starburst scar of a gunshot over Illya's right hip gives him pause, and he leans in to press a kiss to it. "That must have hurt."

Illya's hand settles in his hair. "Long time ago."

Napoleon looks up to see Illya look down at him, and he nods, leaving Illya that story till a later date. He shifts up until he's lying alongside Illya's long frame, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth, before awkwardly shifting so he can use his uninjured left hand and wrap it around Illya's cock.

Illya bucks into his grip, swearing under his breath in Russian. He's closer than he wants to let on, Napoleon thinks, and he thumbs the tip, smiling when Illya curses again. It turns out he is not always blessed with the infinite patience he sometimes puts on. "It's going to get even better if you find me some slick," Napoleon says softly, and laughs when Illya blindly grabs something in the nightstand, handing it over. 

It is better, once he's slicked up his hand, because the moment he wraps his hand around Illya and starts to stroke, Illya moans breathlessly and utterly gives himself over to the pleasure. It's a joy to watch, unabashedly beautiful, and Napoleon want to draw it out, watch Illya curse and writhe under his touch for as long as he can. He can feel the urgency in Illya, in the short thrusts into his hand, the moans that make Napoleon's blood sing, and he decides he wants to see what climax does to Illya even more. 

Illya chases it when Napoleon applies himself, somewhat awkward with his left hand, Illya's body straining after it as Napoleon moves his hand faster, bringing him closer. When Napoleon finally tips him over the edge and he comes, Illya collapses into the release with a moan and a sigh. Napoleon strokes him through it, biting down on a smart comment, intuitively sure Illya is too vulnerable, and Illya opens his eyes, smiling heavy lidded at him. Napoleon is a connoisseur of all things beautiful, and he very much adds this image to his collection. 

The silence stretches slowly between them, then Illya shifts, reaching out to put a hand on Napoleon's hip, two fingers sliding under the waistband of his shorts. Napoleon can only smile as Illya looks at him, holding still, waiting. Then Illya smiles back and pushes them down, and Napoleon lifts up to let him. Illya reaches for the slick and gets some on his hand, wrapping his long fingers around Napoleon's hardness. The first touch makes his body jerk, everything centering down to one point, and his eyes fall shut. Distantly, he hears Illya say, "Look at me." It's an effort to comply, but he meets Illya's eyes. "Good," Illya says, and then Napoleon just keeps looking. 

Illya learns him, feeling out what makes Napoleon moan and ask for more, his fingers sure and constant. Napoleon pushes into Illya's hand, his blood and skin singing with how good it feels. Illya gives him everything he asks for until Napoleon comes wordlessly over Illya's fist, sagging into Illya's chest. He nearly walked away from this. It startles a laugh out of him and Illya makes a noise, wiping his hand on the sheets before bringing it up to stroke the hair from Napoleon's forehead. 

"You okay, Cowboy?"

"Yeah." He's still catching his breath as Illya's fingers card through his hair, and it feels decadently good to just lie here. Eventually, Illya's hand slides down to his shoulder and over his arm, and Napoleon shifts closer into the warmth of Illya's chest, seeking it out without trying to think too hard. 

Illya moves away, sitting up to pull the covers over them, but then he settles back into the pillows, arranging Napoleon so he lies against Illya's chest. Napoleon doesn't protest at being manhandled, though he thinks about it for a few exasperated seconds. 

Illya breaks the leisurely silence eventually, his voice soft. "I'm glad you called me last night."

Napoleon thinks about all the other ways the night could have gone, the silent cold of his own apartment, and swallows. "I'm glad you didn't take me back to my place."

Illya's free hand comes up to stroke his hair again and Napoleon lets him. "This will not be easy."

Napoleon's breath catches. He is stepping over the edge into the abyss, but Illya wants to go there with him. "You have a gift for understatement, Peril."

Illya huffs out a short breath. "And you are not serious enough, Cowboy."

A part of him wants to needle Illya, just because he can. But he also wants to learn the story behind that scar on Illya's hip and what it'll feel like to make Illya come with his mouth. He holds his first reply in check and waits a beat. "It is always going to be hard," he says honestly. 

Illya's hand stills in his hair. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't try," Illya replies. 

Napoleon lifts his head to look at Illya, unguarded, beautiful, right there for the taking if Napoleon will just reach out and trust. "No," he says softly, "it doesn't mean we shouldn't."

Illya smiles.

 _finis_.

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/non con warning is on this fic because Napoleon is assaulted by someone who attempts to coerce him into oral sex through violence. The assault is not completed. If you need any additional information before reading, you can find me on twitter, where I'm happy to answer any questions: [@verasteine](https://twitter.com/verasteine).


End file.
